Slightly Saving Magnus Bane
by forcedapathy
Summary: It must have been the most amicable break up in the history of Magnus Bane break ups. They'd had a cup of tea, one long hug, he'd pressed his lips to her forehead gently, he'd had one last smell of her perfume, she'd pressed her key into Magnus' hand, and that was it. A chapter was closed. Except life never really worked out like that. Based on 'Saving Raphael Santiago' in TBC.


**Slightly Saving Magnus Bane**

**Disclaimer: Do not own or there'd be way more Malec in the books.**

**Rated T for swearing and non explicit references to sex. **

**This was based off _Saving Raphael Santiago_, a story which is part of _The Bane Chronicles_. You can read this without having read that, but it won't make a lot of sense.**

* * *

Magnus had known it was coming. It was bound to happen, really.

Sooner or later.

Its onset had been easy to see, to spot, to notice. Magnus had noticed the passing glances at innocent children wrapped safely in their mother's arms. He had spotted the way Etta would stare a little too long at family gatherings when they were out together, hand in hand. He had seen her pretty eyes gazing at grandparents and parents and children – at bountiful, happy, laughing families, the sort who were short but bright sparks in the grand scheme of things - with an emotion Magnus recognised easily.

Longing.

Magnus always tried to be exciting: he always tried to be an eternally bright spark and not just an eternally comfortable glow. Unfortunately, it seemed he did not seem to burn brightly enough. Certainly not enough to make up for the things which his demonic parentage had ensured: his inability to grow old with his own family. He would never sit side by side with his partner in a nursing home, wrinkles adorned on his face like battle scars, watching his grandchildren. He still wasn't always sure how he felt about that.

He never wanted to know his own time was running out (call it a survival instinct), but neither did he want to know that his loved one's time was running out and his wasn't.

He did not resent her leaving: he wasn't angry. It was just a quiet acceptance, because, of course, he would have to lose her at some point. It was a cruel inevitability born from her wish to not stop the clock, to embrace her own mortality with grace, and see her life through as she had been designated from birth. It was a result which was, therefore, impossible to stop but carrying the anticipation of pain. He could not blame her: she did not have eternity.

It must have been the most amicable break up in the history of Magnus Bane break ups – and there had been some spectacular shows (a specific incident including half a dozen police officers, several jars of mustard and a few chickens sprang to mind). She'd come in one day when the crisp air of the morning still lingered, which was how he had known that the serious and unpleasant thing he'd been anticipating was going to happen. Usually she would come to him in the evenings after her work as a singer, in her sparkly dress, and they would dance to some silent song in his kitchen. He would spin her round and round and round, the windows in the kitchen staring over a calm blackness, like a reflection of eternity. Their eternity.

Irony was rarely lost on Magnus.

He'd let her in with a heavy heart, hardening so it would smash to pieces _that_ much easier and not just be an unrecognisable, bloody pulp. Etta had come in, sat down and explained it to him, holding his hand between hers.

"I want a family," she'd said, "I still love you, Magnus, I always will, but I can't stop the clock. You've been very good to me."

Clearly not good enough, he thought a little bitterly, but turned that thought off quickly.

It was not her fault.

He had stared fixedly at his hand sandwiched between hers, willing himself to hold the tears at bay until she'd gone at least, knowing it was not fair to make this harder on her than it already was. They'd had a cup of tea, one long hug, he'd pressed his lips to her forehead gently, he'd had one last smell of her perfume, she'd pressed her key into Magnus' hand, and that was it.

A chapter was closed.

Except life never really worked out like that.

All actions, Magnus knew, had equal and opposite reactions. At first, he was okay. Alright. Fine. Good. Smashing. Fantastic.

He supposed it was because, at first, it wasn't as if she was really gone – not _gone_ gone: it was like he hadn't seen her in a few days because he had been particularly busy with work or she was visiting family. Until the days crept to weeks, which crept to the month milestone.

It came all at once, which made sense, really, because he'd refused to even recognise it as real, let alone deal with it, for so long. It was like a slow, continuous build up of pressure that was waiting to be released. The longer he waited, the bigger the explosion.

He'd looked around his flat (looked at the vivid blue paint he suddenly violently disliked) and noticed how empty it was. Completely desolate. The bright walls and furniture, the crazy décor… it all seemed… bland. Like the life and joy it had once contained had become distant memories full of caricatures.

They had decorated the flat just weeks before she went. By decorate, he meant they had picked out colours and he had snapped his fingers. Magnus enjoyed colour coordinating. He also enjoyed snapping his fingers. He liked trying things like that - testing various shades and combinations of colours to find the perfect match. It was like a big experiment. Moreover, if Magnus liked anything, it was colour.

Magnus had seen it in the immortals he had known - living forever could result in monotony, in the walking through life immune to the world and all its joy and pain. Colour reminded Magnus of how vivid the world was, no matter how old he got.

He wasn't think this while he was he was sat on his sofa. No, he was sat wondering whether she had known the day that she was going to leave. If she knew she was going to get dressed in her red shirt and white trousers and tell him she was leaving when she had told him she liked the blue walls. If she knew she was going to rip his already weakened heart to pieces.

Now, the normal order was to sit home, eat everything, read crappy romance novels and then get completely and utterly wasted.

Magnus was never one to conform.

He went to the first Downworld bar he could get in. He ordered three of something fruity, strong and blue and downed them all in five minutes. The bartender looked at Magnus with raised eyebrows (which nearly vanished into his greasy brown hair) but then did as requested and gave him something fruity, stronger and red. Like his broken heart, he thought sadly, and his hair, he thought with very slightly more cheer, before downing that glass too. If he was going to be heartbroken, he might as well look fabulous.

The bar was small and a definite fire hazard. Its tables and chairs were all somehow constructed of wood and so was the bar he was leaning on. Behind the bar, there were rows and rows of alcohol filled bottles, all ready to give a much-needed escape to a much needing Magnus and confirming his fire hazard theory.

Around his next sixth or seventh very strong drink, he caught himself giving an extremely serious lecture to what may or may not have been a female werewolf. Though, Magnus reflected, it could be a boy with long hair - he couldn't really focus enough on the face, he realised with a deep sadness. This could be, Magnus thought emphatically, the most beautiful human being in the country- _no_, the planet! And he wouldn't even know!

"You- you just, y'know," he slurred, "give your h-h-heart and your selfff… and then watch 'em… you just see 'em… go. Every- every time." He was nodding by then, hitting his glass on the counter for emphasis before continuing his very important life lecture. "I'll tell you!" Magnus said, waggling his finger severely. His elbow from the other arm was offering the support he required to stay upright on the bar surface, whilst the rickety stool was somehow still supporting him and preventing him lying in a pitiful mess on the floor.

Because he was Magnus Bane, high something or other, and he had _dignity_.

"What I'll tell you…" Magnus said, leaning forward, stopping and then preceding to frown as he wondered what _exactly_ he was just going to say. Blearily looking at his captive audience of… some number higher than five, he looked round for inspiration. It took a few moments before he looked at his own hand on the counter holding his heartbreakingly red drink for it to hit him again. "Ah, yes!" He said, waving his arm about, before leaning forward as if telling a very personal secret. "I am six hundred- no seven hundred years old, and I tell y-y-you," At this point, Magnus was pointing straight at a girl with very long blonde hair, "…every heartbreak is as bad as the first." He was nodding to himself by then, astounded by his own wisdom.

"Matthew," some kid said, which was quite insulting: he was Magnus Bane! Who was this little loser? (The irony of calling the kid a loser, when he was drowning his sorrows alone in a bar, was, for once, lost on Magnus.) To be fair, he couldn't really tell who the kid was either until he was right in front of Magnus, and then all he could see was that he had a lot of stubble. "You're gone."

"Gone?" Magnus asked indignantly, "Gone?! I am not gone! I am Magnus Bane. Very much h-h-here! In fashion… In the time!" He stopped then and looked at the boy, feeling himself welling up with wide eyes. "That's the problem! I'm always here, never g-g-gone." The boy looked horrified as Magnus stared at him like he was going to burst into tears, clutching his drink like how a child does with a teddy.

"Does anyone know where he lives?" Stubble boy asked around Magnus' captive audience, a note of concern in his voice. Magnus was insulted.

"You, my dear sir, are not coming home with me tonight!" Magnus said, because _really_, he was in a time of a break up – even if the boy could be the most attractive man on the planet. Nobody paid the slightest attention to Magnus, of course.

"That's Magnus Bane," Blondie said, as Magnus reflected his reputation as threatening was a bit fucked now. "I know where he lives." Had he helped her before? He vaguely recollected something about some lost trinket or other.

Getting home was not at all a pleasant experience: he was sick three times and only narrowly missed Blondie's remarkably high heels. He wanted to protest that he was a warlock, thank you _very_ much, and could have gotten the stains out her shoes easily, but his mouth was not quite engaging with his brain.

He didn't stop to thank them, because, really, they were the privileged ones, and proceeded to slam the door in their faces.

* * *

The morning came with the recognition that was a little uncourteous of him, and with the idea he should never be allowed to drink that much again in his life. It was causing a sort of ringing noise in his head. How much had he had?

Magnus realised a little belatedly that it was actually his telephone making that god-awful sound (marvellous invention, he'd though with delight when getting it, what will the mundanes think of next?). Stumbling over his assorted jackets and shirts on his way to the phone, he picked it up and croaked in, admittedly, weaker tones than usual, "Magnus Bane?"

"You sound awful," Catarina opened with. "Just bloody awful."

"I'm ill. Very, terribly ill," Magnus said sagely, clearing his throat, despite each sound making him feel like a hammer was smashing his skull to pieces.

"Oh? I could come over and see if I can help?" Catarina asked (whose speciality had always been healing magic) so innocently Magnus was instantly suspicious.

"No, no, no," he said slowly. "It's a simple cold, nothing to worry about."

"Well, then it will be really simple to clear up." She replied, just as innocuously as before. Magnus narrowed his eyes at a round mug stain on his table, tracing it with his finger. He contemplated the blue wall in front of him, decorated only weeks ago with his former lady love.

Maybe it was time to redecorate again.

"Has Etta spoken to you?" He tried very hard to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice; he didn't think he succeeded particularly well.

"Etta?" Catarina asked (sounding like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, Magnus thought derisively).

"Yes, late thirties, brown hair, good singer?"

There was a pause.

… "I was worried," she said flatly. "You were together for a long time."

"I'm fine," Magnus insisted, sounding so not fine to even himself that he winced. "She rang you?" There was almost a desperate note in his voice now. He bit his own lip hard to punish himself.

Most people might not have admitted it, might not have said how Etta had rang Catarina but not Magnus, might have spared him that pain. However, Catarina thought you should deal with heartbreak like you should deal with taking off a plaster, as quickly as possible. This was to reduce exposure to pain and to give the wound the chance to heal, rather than a slow continuous pain that never quite healed over. "She was worried," she responded, the silent concession in the words. There was silence over the phone.

"Well, got to run!" Magnus said brightly, the kind of bright harsh crappy artificial lighting gave.

"Magnus-"

"Lots of work and whatnot! Busy, busy, busy! Talk to you later!" With that, he slammed the phone down and sprinted to the bathroom to throw up.

* * *

Three cups of coffee later (and a few cheeky puffs on a cigarette), Magnus felt so not better it was a joke and refused any clients who knocked on his door. (It wasn't as if he really needed the money, not for a good three or four years.) Also, why would he care if that man was growing a tree trunk in an unsavoury place and if that woman's sister was under the influence of a love spell?

"BORING, BORING, BORING!" He bellowed before slamming the door in the woman's stunned face.

Usually, he could cure a hangover with a click of his fingers (which was why he never kept any tablets, he supposed sourly) but since he believed there was still some alcohol in his bloodstream, he decided against this. "Warlock blows up own brain!" He could see the headline quite clearly in his head, and whilst that might be a suitable respite, he didn't feel he could deal with the humiliation, even in death.

Wouldn't that be the king of all ironies, he thought grimly, if he died right then.

The following week followed much the same way, he would wake up with a hangover, and to cure said hangover, would drink more alcohol. How he got home probably owed much to several good citizens and Magnus' disturbingly high tolerance for spirits.

Catarina came around the fifth or sixth day, he couldn't remember exactly which, having managed to get some time off from her very important work _saving lives_ (as she liked to remind Magnus).

For this special occasion, Magnus tidied his kitchen and living room with a quick flick of his fingers, but decided changing out his ruby red (he had a red theme going on – he was counteracting the blue walls) pyjama pants slung low on his hips. It was Catarina – there was zero interest either way anyway and if he wasn't going out…

"I'm sober for you," Magnus argued grumpily when she looked at his state of undress (though, _really_, why she was surprised was beyond him) with a raised eyebrow. It was a little rich coming from someone who was always blue, but he was generously willing to let it go when she handed him the pastry she had bought on her way up.

"You've lost too much weight," she said shaking her head, looking him up and down, "Eat."

He would've liked to argue that he looked fabulous 100% of the time, as he was Magnus Bane, however Magnus had to agree grudgingly he might not be at his best, maybe at a 90/95% - so he had no choice but to comply.

Catarina stayed until it was pitch black outside and he insisted she stay over, both ignoring the fact Catarina was perfectly capable of knocking someone down with a quick wave of her hand. They ended up sitting in Magnus' kitchen, talking and talking about the past people in their long lives until sun rays begin shining through the kitchen window. (Magnus' list was worryingly longer than Catarina's – not including any one-night stands, which there had been… a few).

She left, kissing Magnus on the cheek, hugging him with a fierce abandon, muttering in his ear, "You'll get through this, Magnus."

He looked at her then, her blue skin (she never bothered with glamours around him) her honest clear eyes and he replied, a little sadly, "Don't I always?"

* * *

He hit three days without any alcohol or remotely party like behaviour, remembering Catarina's insistence he'd be okay and figuring he might as well try. Still not taking any jobs due to the lethargy he was feeling towards everything at the moment, he told four vampires, two werewolves and a fey exactly where to shove their requests in different levels of graphic detail (depending on his mood at each particular time).

The deprivation of alcohol allowed a brief window where Magnus took stock of his situation: he was alarmingly low on provisions and had barely eaten. He realised the urgency of the situation when he passed out for a few seconds when he moved too quickly reaching for his silk dressing gown (beautiful piece of clothing). It was enough for him to summon a little food until he felt his regular half-human again, and dig out some forgotten pasta and assorted cans from the back of his dusty cupboards. He was quite impressed with how much better he felt. Who knew food would have such an effect?

Magnus should've known it wasn't going to last. It wasn't enough to live forever – no, no, no. You had to feel extra sucky whilst doing it.

He'd been searching for a good record that was hidden in a mess of other not so good records, thinking that was just the thing he needed to improve his mood. Magnus had looked up in despair, waving his hands about (never say Magnus Bane was only dramatic for an audience) when he failed to locate it. This action made him face to face with a picture of him and Etta on the top of his cupboard: it was grainy, black and white, and yet it was the most beautiful picture he'd ever seen. She was slightly younger there than when she left (left him), maybe early thirties, and she was _glowing_. There was no other word. Magnus felt a stab of longing so severe it hurt.

The state he got himself in that night was quite spectacular, even by his own standards.

* * *

The sun came through the crack between the two sides of his blue curtains (more blue; he really needed to redecorate) and with a wave of his hand, he closed them because, _god have mercy_, his head _killed_. He rubbed the pulsing pain on his temple with his hand and eased the headache somewhat with a few blue sparks (deciding he had to be sober to feel this bad). Unfortunately, all the magic in the world couldn't make Magnus go back in time and stop drinking after his seventh or eighth shot (or double shot - but it was all semantics really).

He went to roll onto his front and abruptly stopped in surprise. His own skin bumped into more, well, skin. By Magnus' reckoning, unless he had secret contortionist skills he knew nothing about, that was someone else's skin.

Fuck.

Now, Magnus'd had more than his fair share of one night stands in his lifetime. (More than enough, most people thought privately - others thought it not so privately.) He had just wanted to leave it a little longer after… well. After.

Oh, well, damage was done.

He heaved himself out of the bed with more effort needed than should have been warranted, pulled on some gold and green pyjama bottoms and cracked open his door slightly. The light afforded allowed Magnus to see a man draped under Magnus' duvet up to the bottom of his chest. He had coffee coloured skin, dreadlocks and a healthy amount of stubble.

The opposite of Etta, he noticed with no small amount of amusement, even if you weren't looking at the sex of the recent occupants of his bed.

Magnus gave one last lingering glance at the man, realising he had no idea what this person's name was (or if he'd even asked for it), before tripping to the kitchen to make himself an extraordinarily strong coffee, possibly an expresso.

He stood in the kitchen, staring outside contemplatively. Magnus was not one to assign a large importance to just sex. It was impossible, really, when you were three hundred years old to assign importance to a mere physical act. That didn't mean all immortals felt like he did – Catarina, especially, was not one to sleep around. Magnus, on the other hand, was of the opinion that if he was going to live forever he should do so enjoying every moment. That included all the pleasures in life.

He was on his second cup of coffee when one-night-stand-man came stumbling into his kitchen (fully clothed now). Magnus sincerely hoped this person was well acquainted with one night standard etiquette, which stretched to a cup of coffee in Magnus' case and then imminent departure.

"Hello," one-night-stand-man mumbled, looking every bit as horrifically bad as Magnus had felt upon awakening. He sat down around Magnus' circular table, still looking a bit dazed. Whether from their escapades last night, or the alcohol, Magnus wasn't entirely sure. His ego demanded it be the sex, nevertheless. The man's eyes winced a little at the kitchen, probably from the bright colours Magnus liked to use; he refused to consider it was at the décor. He still had a fondness for the kitchen's decoration – as it had been the same for a good year now.

He had a moment where he considered snapping his fingers and curing one-night-stand-man's hangover, but changed his mind at the fear that it might encourage him to stay and chat.

Magnus looked at the man appraisingly, he wasn't a vampire, or he'd most likely still be sleeping and he certainly wouldn't be stood in Magnus' kitchen in bright light. He was most likely a werewolf, Magnus decided, as he didn't have any marks of the fey.

Magnus studied him for a moment; he didn't seem overly clingy so Magnus decided it was acceptable to offer the man a coffee. One-night-stand-man looked surprised by the offer and Magnus realised he may have been emitting 'piss off' vibes stronger than he had initially thought. He conjured (he felt 'stole' was too strong a word) up a coffee with a click of his fingers for him and the man looked startled for a moment, before seemingly remembering Magnus was a warlock. It was a little grating, since he was Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, and all dimwits should remember that.

He thoughtfully gave the man five minutes to drink his coffee in silence before saying in the kindest voice he could muster.

"So, last night was good and everything –"

"What?" the man said, looking hurt all of a sudden, and Magnus thought too late that he had judged this all wrong. "You don't actually want to elope to Paris?" Magnus stared at him like his own father had just appeared in his kitchen, wearing a pink leotard and declaring himself a hippy vegan.

The man suddenly grinned. "I'm joking," he said chortling to himself. Magnus scowled. This was what his reputation had come to – jumped up werewolves thought they could mock him. Years to make it, weeks to destroy it.

The man left shortly after to Magnus' palatable relief. "It's nothing personal," Magnus informed him at the door. "I'm going through a break up."

"Well, maybe after…"

"No, no, no," Magnus alleged hastily, "Warlock heart breaks last a long time – it's why we live so long," he was nodding fervently by this point. "Could be decades," he sighed, before slamming the door in one-night-stand-man's face and not allowing him to question his logic.

This then started what could be called the 'one night stand phase.' No strings attached sex, followed the next morning by insistence that there were no strings attached. Failing that, Magnus would cut the damn strings himself. One more than one occasion he had to force said one-night-stander to walk out the door (with a twitch of his finger). Depending on whether they were sans clothes (which happened on a few memorable occasions), he also had to throw their clothes with them.

It was not long, obviously, before someone had to rain on his parade.

Mercifully, this time he was substantially more prepared for the ringing of the phone like the sharp shrieks of a banshee. By this, he meant he realised tha the noise was not a by-product of his own hung-over brain.

He pulled the phone out after almost face planting the table and, impressed by his own save of his beautiful face, he answered with a cheery "Hola!" and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Magnus?" The deep voice of Ragnor Fell resonated down the cord and through his ear. Magnus glanced apprehensively towards his bedroom door and willed his latest conquest to stay asleep until the end of this unwanted phone call. The last thing he needed was Ragnor Fell to question his life choices more than he already did by hearing Magnus' well-prepared and alarmingly practiced 'piss off' speech.

You'd think he didn't use protection for all the ire he received.

"That's me," Magnus said as cheerfully as possible, despite grimacing at his own voice.

"Magnus," Ragnor said, and Magnus _knew_ he should have got off the phone as quickly as possible: Ragnor Fell was as sensitive as a bull in a china shop, therefore getting straight to the problem, allowing none of Magnus' famous weasling.

"You need to stop this," Ragnor said with no preamble whatsoever. Magnus had long ago decided being green had made Ragnor much blunter. He supposed it was as people, as a general, were too distracted by the green skin and the horns to wait for the point in a ramble of niceties.

"I, being the charming fellow I am, would be delighted to stop doing anything that would insult your sensitive sensibilities, however, I do feel my delightful self answering the phone should have pleased you," Magnus said airily, examining his nails, knowing how it would've irked Ragnor if he could see him. That he couldn't was of no consequence: it was the thought that mattered.

"Magnus," Ragnor said, like a parent who has told their child 'no' at least thirty times in the space of so many minutes, "I know all about your antics."

Magnus thought the best response was complete denial. "Antics?" Magnus asked, managing to sound surprised, shocked, outraged and offended all at once. "If you mean being the highly successful High Warlock of Brooklyn, then I hope you have."

"I have my contacts, Magnus," Ragnor said with too much amusement for Magnus' tastes.

Magnus frowned at this, considering. He knew Catarina would most likely have expressed concern about Magnus to Ragnor if they'd talked. Ragnor was a wise fellow and it was entirely possible he may have guessed what Magnus' behaviour had been this past month (especially since that time in Peru). On the other hand, Magnus could see a much clearer path to how Ragnor may've acquired such information and was more likely filed under 'contacts': it started with Raphael and ended with Santiago.

Magnus sorted swiftly through many recent drunken nights in his mind. To his displeasure, he recalled at least one vampire one night stand and some hazy recollections of lectures (on the perils of love and so forth) to any poor unfortunate vampire who happened to sit too close to Magnus, or indeed come up to him (an acquaintance from one of Magnus' awesome parties, no doubt). Being the well-connected vampire Raphael had rapidly made himself to be, he'd likely caught wind of this. Whether his recount to Ragnor was born from concern or something more, like imagining the lashing he was going to receive from Ragnor, Magnus would've stacked his entire house, fortune, powers and life that it was the latter.

The ungrateful cretin.

"Raphael," Magnus uttered flatly, like one might say 'that annoying little vampire pain in the ass, who I stuck my neck out for and had to endure in my flat, who also has a tongue sharper than glass, who, by the way, really should've been beaten at least once or twice'.

"Raphael," Ragnor said, like one might say 'that delightful vampire who was regrettably saddled with you for help and had to endure living with you, who also actually talks common sense unlike you and is so savvy I think he'll do excellently in life (the 'unlike you' implied this time)'. "… has expressed his concern over the High Warlock of Brooklyn's inactivity in the correct manner…" Ahh, Magnus also had turned down a few vampires seeking help. That may've also gotten back to Raphael, being second in command and all. "…and activity in the wrong manner." He furthermore thought that was a polite way of Ragnor saying, "doing fuck all and getting drunk and laid" – despite the fact Magnus believed getting drunk and laid a fulfilling past time, especially when your life had no particularly pressing time limit, he realised it was not a belief agreed with by the many, especially when one was the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

He could see them, he thought menacingly. Raphael would be there sighing down the phone, in an 'I know he's an idiot but I've tried and he just doesn't _listen'_ way and Ragnor would be there ranting about how Magnus was the biggest disappointment to the race of warlocks since that idiot Merlin had got himself killed over that idiotic Shadowhunter, Prince Arthur or whatever.

"I'm fine," Magnus insisted. "I'm having… a break."

"A break," Ragnor stated.

"A break," Magnus said with confidence. "I am investing in some long overdue me time; I am reconnecting with myself."

There was a long muteness down the phone.

"And this has nothing to do with any recent developments in personal matters?"

Magnus glowered at the table's mug stain and jabbed it irritably with his finger. "Not at all," he snapped. "As to what personal matters, I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Catarina," is all Ragnor said to that. Damn it, all three of them were in league. They'd probably all been plotting. Ragnor and Raphael he could understand, but Catarina? There was one word for her: traitor.

"A recent departure of someone who may or may not have been close to me has nothing to do with any recent behaviour," Magnus said stiffly. "At all," he added.

"Magnus, you cannot forget all your duties because of a little heartbreak," Ragnor said sternly, steamrolling Magnus' denial. Magnus was suddenly overcome with the odd urge to portal to London and bludgeon Ragnor to death with his own icy heart. He would then gleefully wait for London to start looking for a new High Warlock within the hour. "You had a good time of it," he added.

"That's the point," Magnus replied a little aloofly.

There's a sigh on the other end of the phone before Ragnor spoke again, "You worked hard to be High Warlock, I need not remind you to not let that opportunity go to waste. It's not the end of the world." And that was all Ragnor said on the subject before asking Magnus about some spell or other he was working on. He understood what Ragnor was doing – not dwelling on the heartbreak and focusing him on work. A message in the lack of a message, Magnus acknowledged a little wryly.

Magnus, though seething slightly at Ragnor and mentally preparing to skin Raphael (his mother be damned), took the words to heart and was a little kinder to the one night stander, in that he gave her 15 minutes with her coffee before ordering the immediate evacuation of his flat.

"Wasn't that great anyway," she muttered, scowling. Magnus didn't take the words of an annoyed hung-over woman to heart (or allow them to damage his ego) – besides, he knew it was a filthy lie: when you were as old and experienced as Magnus Bane, you knew what you were doing.

* * *

The next week progressed in that he completed stage one after he had completed stage two of the break up process.

Magnus moped about, ate ice cream, and wallowed in self-pity. By the fourth day of wallowing, he decided to shower off four days of wallowing and go out. Just for the novelty of seeing the outside world.

He headed to the nearest Downworlder café, shuffled through the door and slid in a booth. The walls were orange and covered in wooden photo frames with plants in and the booths were a matching ginger. Magnus fondly recalled wearing a complete orange outfit to the café - just so he could learn how it felt to be a chameleon without having to risk turning himself into one.

Looking at the menu, he considered the fact that he was so hungry he didn't even feel hungry. Staring down at his chest (which was nicely shown by his open shirt) he decided it was a little too easy to count his ribs, before ordering everything for human/warlock consumption in sight when the waitress arrived.

Feeling mildly better by this, he returned to his apartment with a renewed sense of purpose.

This time he let in the woman who was buzzing to be let up without even bellowing down the microphone. Unfortunately, instead of being the client he was hoping for, he ended up with a middle-aged hooker. She introduced herself as Alice, asking if he knew when Mr Steven would be home. She was middle aged, had dyed red hair that was in curls to the bottom of her chin and had on some substantial make up – not Magnus crazy make up, just thick.

Coming to the realisation that leaving Alice to wait in the hall outside Mr Steven's apartment was unacceptable social etiquette, Magnus invited her in.

"I didn't want to wait outside," she explained, taking a drag of her cigarette. Looking around his vibrant apartment with interest, she offered up the pack. Deciding it wouldn't hurt any more than the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed recently, Magnus took one and used the offered lighter. He took the smoke back with some satisfaction. Technically, he had given up, but every now and then…

Magnus took the time to explain between drags he didn't know Mr Steven well, he had no idea if Mr Steven would be back soon, and he didn't know if he was, as she put it, a 'kinky bastard'.

At this instant, they enjoyed a miraculous cup of tea (he pretended to rustle around in his kitchen before summoning some cups) and had a long debate on the merits of colour coordinated outfits versus clashing colours. They then moved onto what colours he should paint his walls without reaching any sort of agreement. After an hour or so, she decided Mr Stevens must be back from work by now, blew Magnus a kiss, and sashed out, long coat covering the lack of clothing and corset she wore underneath.

Magnus wondered what had happened to his clientele.

* * *

On the second day of no clients, he had to consider the possibility he had maybe let the word out through New York's Downworld any ask for help would result in "BORING, BORING, BORING!" and a door slammed in their faces.

This particular thought led him to the particular cause of this particular issue when he threw open his door in a long-suffering fashion and marched downstairs, colliding with someone pressing to be buzzed upstairs. He'd intended to go to the nearest Downworlder café and then post a highly sarcastic 'High Warlock of Brooklyn prepared to see your sorry asses again' notice in the window and wait for the work. Unfortunately, his irritation had made him not observe his surroundings. This was to the point where throwing his arms out in an ungainly way of catching his balance was the only way to stop his face greeting the pavement. Somehow, unknown to even Magnus, he succeeded in keeping himself and 'poor mowed down stranger' upright. Magnus Bane – 2 (or maybe the stranger gave him a 3?), Gravity – 0.

This allowed him the ill-fated circumstance of realising he had not, in fact, walked into a stranger. Actually, it was very much the opposite, being that it was Etta.

He stared. Or perhaps 'gawped' was a more accurate description.

It was too early for them to meet as casual friends. Magnus still felt the tug towards her, like a chord between them had suddenly reimagined itself. Maybe he always would feel like that. He found himself studying her for differences, which Magnus knew was stupid – but mortals aged so fast and time was different to Magnus. He would see a youth, go on a holiday, and come back to see them with grey in their hair.

"Hello Magnus," Etta said, a little awkwardly, but she smiled at him warmly. He felt an odd sensation akin to the feeling that his heart had dropped to his stomach. "I hope you're not too busy, but… can I come up?"

No, Magnus wanted to reply. No, because you left and you left without me and I'm only just a little okay. "Sure," he replied instead, and turned 180 degrees, leading her back upstairs, letting them in with a wave of his hand. He felt a pure pang of relief that she had come after he had decided to clean up marginally following the 'one night stand phase'.

She looked around the flat, taking it in, as he had when he had looked at her face. It was odd, he noted, his aging was marked by the changes in his environment (the people or otherwise), whereas in others it was by the contours on their faces. He knew she had missed him - it didn't take a genius to figure it out. He didn't need numerous centuries of reading people to know it, or decades reading Etta to know it, it was simple: when you loved someone, you missed them.

However, Magnus had been alive for three hundred years, and, no matter how much a fool he was, no matter how willing he was to put his beating heart onto his sleeve, or place it in someone's palm, he was not self harming enough to assume this was a reconciliation. Magnus knew that missing him did not change the outcome of her decision because she was looking for the thing that Magnus couldn't give to her, or which she deemed Magnus was not enough to complete: family. Magnus, throughout all his years, knew family, whether by blood or bond, was something most forces could not compete against.

"Can I sit down?" Etta asked, looking uncertain. He remembered the days she would let herself in; he nodded.

"Would you like a drink?"

For a moment, Etta looked like she'd refuse and he was tempted to snap that it was only a drink. However, Magnus Bane was not bitter. He wasn't. "Tea, please." She asked, demurely. A snap of his fingers and it was done.

He sank down onto the red sofa. "I'm guessing this is not just a social call," Magnus asked and narrowed his cat eyes at her.

She sighed, and soothed her hair down before shifting slightly on the matching red chair. She looked up then, meeting his eyes with a firm stare. "Magnus, I wanted to tell you this because I respect you and I don't want you any more hurt than you already are." She took a deep breath, bracing herself though Magnus felt forebodingly it should be the other way round. "I'm engaged."

Magnus felt like someone had cut his lungs out and then rolled all the air out with a spiked rolling pin. "This soon?" He choked out stiffly. A horror filled cloud began to descend on his mind.

"I didn't cheat, Magnus," Etta said, staring at him stiffly, seeming to understand his sudden horror better than Magnus had himself. "But time's running out for me."

Magnus was sick of time.

He was repeating these words to himself later as he downed his glass and slammed it onto the bar, requesting another. He contemplated summoning some more liquor into his glass but decided against it for the reason he usually did – doing spells when drunk was a Bad Idea. The kind of Bad Idea that had capital letters and a tsunami of liquor with it.

He drank four more drinks sitting in the corner of the bar quietly. It was a clean, newish bar, with sleek counters and bottles of fruity beverages adorning the walls. He vaguely registered some woman slide into the chair next to him - he didn't even look up. Magnus' left arm was folded on top of the bar and his head was laid across it, whilst he used his right hand to swirl the golden liquid around his glass. His slightly downcast eyes spotted that quite a bit of her light blue leg was visible, since her green dress just about covered her essentials and her netted tights were hardly subtle. Magnus realised that she was hitting on him just as he was contemplating another drink.

"Not interested," Magnus said bluntly, cutting off whatever she'd been saying, which showed the kind of mood he was in.

The girl scowled, muttered, "Jerk," before getting up abruptly and wandering off. Magnus recognised her sudden appearance with the time where everyone would show up for a good time. He could tell by the increasing sounds of laughter and chatting and increasing heat.

Magnus felt, not for the first time in his life – and he guessed not his last, unbearably alone. Not the kind of alone that sweaty, nightly activities could make up for, or numerous drinks. The kind of alone he'd felt when his mother had killed herself and his stepfather had tried to drown him, resulting in his stepfather's burnt corpse.

It was getting a little too depressing, even for Magnus, no need to rehash all that old stuff again: the therapy bills would be extortionate. Deciding any more alcohol would not improve the situation, and would only work to spiral him further down the rabbit hole of past memories and pain, he rose a little unsteadily to his feet and burst out the bar door. The cool air hit him as he plunged outside, creeping under Magnus' coat (beautiful piece of clothing) and made him hunch his shoulders as he tried to keep the heat in.

He stumbled out and realised he was a little - a lot - more drunk than he'd first believed. This was surprising as Magnus thought he'd have the alcohol tolerance of a life time alcoholic by now. Alas, he did not.

Making it roughly half way down the street, he grasped the brick wall for balance as he swayed and staggered. He stopped for a moment and desperately tried to keep the vomit back as he bent over from the force of his dry heaving. Gasping, feeling like it had taken everything out of him, Magnus decided just to sit on the floor until he felt a little more sober. He contemplated looking for a bench, but since none were in his peripheral vision and Magnus couldn't be arsed to move an inch, he decided against it. He checked the floor for a moment, thinking it looked clean enough and sat down outside a closed convenience store. He crossed his legs like he did when he was a kid, and leaned against the peeling paint on the wall, tilting his head up to look at the sky. The street was quiet, with just distant voices and faded laughter staining the silence. Magnus could feel the cool of the floor seeping through his black leather trousers as the stone pressed against his legs uncomfortably. He brought his knees up to hug - which was a not unremarkable feat, considering how tight they were.

Magnus stayed liked that for a while, watching his breaths puff out into the air. Dimly, he noticed the occasional trail of cold against his cheek. The volume of voices oscillated with the passing of people now and again. He figured he must've been there for a while when the voices rose slightly, the sound of slight murmuring apparent and showing it was not an insubstantial group of people passing by. Magnus ignored it. He studied the clouds as they moved, feeling the churn of alcohol through his blood, and the slightly hazy buzzed feeling in his head.

He blinked when the clouds abruptly disappeared.

He blinked again, and again. The clouds were still gone. Rapidly, Magnus wondered if he was still upright. Ascertaining that he was by pressing his hands to the glacial brick below him, Magnus looked at the disappeared clouds with some suspicion. It took a few moments before he realised someone was looming over him.

The figure swiftly lowered down next to Magnus until their faces were mere centimetres apart. Something in Magnus, despite his hazy state, was warning him that the silent proximity of this figure was _bad_.

This alarm was confirmed when the hands were suddenly on Magnus' right shoulder and the side of his face, tilting his head left with a brutal strength.

"What the hell are you doing?" Magnus gasped out, suddenly trying to wrench himself from the grasp. Considering the languid feeling in his bones, he struggled to muster up enough strength, and just the slight movement gave him nausea. He felt panic descend on his chest as his neck throbbed. Was he being murdered? Raped? Abducted? Anxiety stabbed him in the stomach. He'd never been in such a vulnerable position before. Magnus cursed his stupidity and why he had thought it was a good idea to sit on the floor on the street whilst drunk.

Though, occurring to him after a moment, he noted there was a reason he wasn't usually so vulnerable: he was a bloody warlock. Scratch that, he was Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn and you _did not_ fuck with him.

Despite the distinct possibility that in his inebriated state he would blow his own head off, or cause a small, possibly huge, fire, he concluded he'd take his chances with his magic over letting his potentially brutal murder commence. Feeling the familiar swell of power at his fingertips, Magnus tried to focus his attention on the task at hand, which, at that point, was harder than it would seem. Relief washed over him as he felt the swirl of energy in his hands that screamed magic. He released a reasonably sized raw blast of power from his hands outward at roughly the same time he felt something sharp scrape over his neck.

Bloody vampires.

It was literally bloody vampires - or, more accurately, bloody _vampire_ - when the vampire soared across the street and slammed its head into the adjacent shop. Magnus gazed with wide eyes for a moment as the vampire slumped to the group and several figures jogged up next to the fallen body, before Magnus abruptly began dry heaving on the pavement next to him. Through his retching, Magnus could hear harsh words being spoken that slowly became decipherable.

"You _idiot_, that is Magnus Bane! Do you not know _anything_? He is hardly a _subtle_ person – rather hard to miss," A voice loaded with disdain was speaking rapidly, and even in such a state, Magnus could not forget the harsh voice of Raphael Santiago. He also took the words as a compliment, though he doubt Raphael meant them like that.

Magnus wondered, definitely not for the first time and certainly not the last, if the universe was playing some sick joke on him. Just when he was completely down on his luck, facing a depression he hadn't felt in some years, the most unsympathetic person he'd ever met (and he knew Ragnor Fell) had meandered into his vision. Literally. Bringing his thirsty vampire followers with him. Although, maybe meander wasn't the right word - Raphael did very little meandering. Raphael did a lot of striding purposefully into situations.

Magnus was much more the meandering type.

"-You are lucky to escape with just a grazed head!" Raphael was still hissing. "I have told you to _check_ all your prey!" Raphael sounded like an exasperated parent dealing with a particularly bratty child who was also thought to be rather slow.

"I wasn't going to kill him," a voice muttered sulkily, which Raphael completely ignored in favour of preaching to his disciple.

"You _do not attack other Downworlders! _Aside from the werewolf scum, _obviously_! We have slim enough allies as it is!" Raphael sounded furious, before stopping abruptly.

Magnus vaguely recognised footsteps coming from near his blasted vampire foe. He could see the figure better now once it was just in front of Magnus. He attempted to focus on the tanned skin and brown eyes. Looking at Magnus steadily, his dark eyes unwavering, he was imposing, somehow seeming taller than Magnus, which, seeing as Magnus was sat on the floor, actually rather made sense.

"I'd heard about this," Raphael said, his voice completely even.

Several thoughts sprang to Magnus's mind but only one escaped his lips, "Ragnor Fell," he stated accusingly, waving his hand emphatically at Raphael with blue sparks glistening at the end of his fingertips.

"No," Raphael stated calmly. "It is Raphael." He said this as though Ragnor was not green, didn't have horns, was not older than Raphael and Magnus _wouldn't be able to tell the difference_.

"I know that," Magnus snapped irritably. "You told Ragnor about my- my-" Magnus floundered amid his accusation suddenly - unsure of what to call his, well, his… _thing_.

Raphael was studying him with some amusement, which may have had something to do with the way Magnus was sat on the floor in the middle of the night, alone and drunk.

"That I did," Raphael said evenly, he tucked his hands in his pockets casually, like it was a relaxed conversation between old friends.

"That was rude," Magnus said petulantly, becoming aware he was shivering rather violently with the cold; he didn't dress for practical reasons.

He became vaguely aware that some of Raphael's followers were standing slightly off to the side but found he didn't have enough in him to care if yet more people witnessed his meltdown. Anyway, they'd just seen a taster of what would happen if they thought to mock him, and that was whilst he was lying on the floor drunk.

"I was doing you a favour," Raphael said mildly. Magnus made a noise between laughter, a disbelieving snort and an incredulous scoff. Raphael seemed mildly affronted. Rapidly resuming his usual mask of indifference, he asked in a tone which sounded more than a little annoyed, "Who do you think has been making sure you get home without knocking yourself out on the pavement, Bane?"

Magnus blinked.

True, one or two helpful citizens of the Downworld had been willing to help him get home, but surely that wasn't Raphael's influence - Raphael was an ungrateful cretin.

"Should've just left me," Magnus said mournfully. "Let me die in a pool of my own glitter speckled vomit." Raphael frowned.

"No one should have to die in glitter," he said so solemnly that Magnus was unsure whether it was actually a joke or something Raphael prescribed to in his hazy moral code. Magnus just stared forlornly at Raphael, not even defending his irrational fondness for glitter. This almost seemed to irk Raphael - though Magnus had no idea why as Raphael vocally disliked Magnus' frivolousness. "Why are you this way?" He demanded. "You are one of the immortals, you live forever, why do you worry about the mortals?"

"Why do you?" Magnus replied, only slurring marginally, knowing the answer, but wanting to explain himself to Raphael without a monologue. Because one can't control who they love and to live without love was to be dead.

"It is not the same," Raphael replied, no anger in his voice. "You have no family."

"Thank you," Magnus said pleasantly, "For the reminder. Your pep talk skills are unmatchable."

"I am not giving you a pep talk," Raphael said flatly. "You need to get yourself together, Bane. It is not the end of the world," Raphael echoed Ragnor Fell's prior sentiments with a condescending look. Magnus wondered how this boy, young by human standards, immortal standards and certainly Magnus', was able to be successfully condescending to Magnus.

Magnus didn't reply to this and looked at Raphael. Looked at the brown skin that should have been glowing and full of colour but was dull. Looked at the brown eyes that may have been warm before, though Magnus fully believed only Raphael's family would've seen it if they had been, but were now perpetually cold and hard. His mouth that held teeth and fangs. The same teeth and fangs that had sank into his friends' necks and killed the vampire who sired him. He thought that maybe Raphael believed he had seen the end of the world, seen all the horror and pain the world had to offer.

Magnus knew that was not true.

"You think so now," Magnus murmured quietly, though he knew Raphael could hear him perfectly. "Wait until you are my age. Wait until the people you love die, so you love some more and they die too, or they realise they will get old and you do not, so they leave. You think immortality is such a gift, _Raphael_, but to live forever is not so good when those around you do not. It is hard for vampires to understand," Magnus said, waving his hand dismissively. "You are a closed community of immortals. I thought, though, that you, out of them all, may have a better understanding of what it is to love those who are mortal."

A silence followed his words, and Magnus curled up into himself a little, feeling so desolate and alone there was a painful ache in his stomach. His head snapped up when he felt a cold hand on his wrist suddenly yank him up; he swayed unsteadily on his feet and willed himself not to empty his stomach on two pairs of shoes at the unforeseen and violent motion – especially not his: they were designer.

"If you are sick on me," Raphael hissed, "I'll give you something to be unhappy about." Magnus just swayed into him unsteadily, blinking rapidly. He stared at his prior seating area desolately, wanting to return to it post haste instead of all this vertical nonsense.

"Raphael?" Some vampire girl said, sounding confused – was it Tilly? Milly? Magnus wracked his brains for the answer. "What are you doing?"

"_Dios_," Raphael snapped – he did a lot of that, Magnus thought, a lot of snapping, like he couldn't believe he had the misfortune to be born and sired into a world with such senseless people and vampires. "What does it look like? I am taking him home."

"I can-" The vampire said hesitatingly.

"No," Raphael cut her off. "I will meet you later. I am dealing with this. Go, now."

The vampires were more under Raphael's control than even Magnus had appreciated, or maybe it was the fact Raphael commanded without the tiniest doubt that his orders wouldn't be followed, as they all vanished within seconds. Off to prey on some humans, understood Magnus detachedly. He hoped they didn't kill when they fed. They probably wouldn't, otherwise Raphael would freak out at their stupidity and start ranting about being caught and food supplies and blah blah and all sorts of too multifaceted ideas for Magnus' alcohol addled mind.

They made steady progress to Magnus' apartment, a stony silence following them. Getting up the stairs was a whole new task, but there was no way Magnus was going to let Raphael carry him - that would just be embarrassing. There were _lines_, damn it.

They made it, despite the fact that at one point Magnus had to stop, grab the banister and hold down sick.

Unlocking the door was also arduous. Magnus squinted at the lock for a while, before waving his hand around. Blue sparks shot from his fingers and proceeded to singe the wooden door, releasing a nice burnt aroma.

Magnus frowned at the door, confounded. Then, brightening like a child who had been told Christmas had come early, he pulled Etta's old key from his wallet as he recalled that it was there, and as he also thought triumphantly that he'd managed to keep hold of his wallet, which, in retrospect, would've burnt any potential mugger and could have been easily summoned again if it had been stolen. Once getting said key out, unfortunately, Magnus became rather stuck on which way round to put it in. It got to a minute until Raphael blasphemed again (Magnus was really going to tell his mother about all this cussing), snatched the key and opened the door.

Magnus fell inside.

Raphael stared down at him blankly.

"You've done your duty now," Magnus announced with the kind of authority people lying on the floor shouldn't have. "We are even. You can stop helping. I have not been murdered tonight, unless that is your intention. I am quite defenceless; it would be a good time for it."

Raphael blinked and then rolled his eyes to the heavens, which confirmed what Magnus knew - he still had faith in God, no matter what he thought he believed. Even if it was just in his believed God's ability to smite Magnus down.

Magnus focused on the ceiling in the semi darkness of his apartment. The only light was from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. Raphael would not need any lights, Magnus knew. Hazily, he noticed Raphael had shut the door behind him and stepped into the living room. His footsteps faded out and Magnus wondered what he was doing, not enough to actually get up from his position on the floor, but he was curious nevertheless. Maybe he was being mugged. It seemed rather unlikely that Raphael would mug him: he'd never appeared the type to run off with a designer bag and matching wallet, and he hadn't when he'd been living there.

His head span as he was pulled into an upright position. He found himself, again, gazing into Raphael's eyes. He laughed a bit at that thought. If Ragnor could see him now…

Cold glass was pressed into his palm and Magnus looked at the glass confused for a moment, before curling his fingers around it. Figuring Raphael could not poison his bloodstream any more than Magnus already had that night, he took several long greedy gulps of water.

Feeling a bit better, Magnus pressed the glass to the floor, before again being manhandled – and not in a way he'd have liked, and certainly not by Raphael - but this time onto his sofa. Raphael spun around and faced him as Magnus half sat and lied on the settee. Raphael observed him, before spinning on his heel once more and pacing back and forth in front of Magnus over the purple rug. It was at this point Magnus noticed Raphael had thought to retrieve a large bowl from the kitchen that was strategically placed within Magnus' retching distance. How thoughtful.

"You can go now," Magnus muttered, possibly a little ungratefully. Raphael sneered at him.

"Go? And leave you to wallow in your own self pity?" He shook his head in repulsion, "Pah!" He retorted.

"Actually," Magnus countered, "that sounds pretty great right now, so if you don't mind…" Magnus gesticulated wildly in some vague direction of the door or maybe the bathroom, he wasn't entirely sure.

Raphael disregarded him – not that he expected anything less.

"You are drinking, sleeping about, not working…" Raphael shook his head again. He must get neck injuries, Magnus decided, all that head shaking at people he considered stupid -and for Raphael that meant shake, shake, shake all day long. "It is not about this woman," Raphael said, almost to himself, waving his hands around at 'this woman'. He knew her name, Magnus was sure, perhaps he assumed avoiding the name would be kinder, or maybe he was just being as bad mannered as usual. "Though how you managed to attract a female companion in the first place…" Raphael trailed off, pausing in his pacing, frowning like he was working out a difficult maths problem or the secrets of the universe.

"Hey!" Magnus yelped indignantly.

"Maybe that's why you were so attached," Raphael said distantly, turning to look at Magnus and refocusing his eyes. "That is not the point, however."

"No, it's not," Magnus spluttered, but Raphael continued on like he hadn't spoken, like a well oiled machine.

"You are afraid of your immortality, of being alone," Raphael identified, staring at Magnus hard.

"Everyone's afraid of being alone," Magnus drawled slowly, the 'you would know' not needing to be voiced. He was having to try now to keep his attention on the conversation and not to just fall asleep where he was. The sofa really was comfortable, and he was so tired…

"_Dios_," Raphael snapped so loudly and exasperatedly that it made Magnus refocus on the conversation with every working brain cell, which, to be honest, wasn't as many as Magnus would've liked. "Maybe they are! But look around you! Open your eyes! Not all of your friends are mortal, Bane. They have all been helping you."

Magnus glared at Raphael. He recognised some truth in the words, however, and conceded reluctantly, "I suppose."

"You suppose?" Raphael scorned mockingly. "If you'd stop dwelling on the things you have lost you would see. This pining… it does well for no one." Raphael was firm in what he was saying; already seeming older than the 15/16 years of age that he looked. However, even human, Magnus doubted he had been anything but mature for his age. "I believe you taught me this," he added after a moment, almost grudgingly. It was like a strange nod to the tie that had unwittingly formed between Magnus and Raphael, a forced but now fully formed… _link_.

"I'm tired," Magnus blurted out, completely killing any moment that may've occurred. Raphael gave him a filthy look.

"I am not carrying you to your bed," Raphael stated. "Think about what I said. I do not wish to waste any more time commanding people to get you home." Raphael turned then, and Magnus recognised the dismissal. Something was pestering him though, and it occurred to him when he saw Raphael near the door.

"We are even now, then?" Magnus asked, identifying the need for balance.

There was a pause. "_Dios_. Of course not," Raphael said, bleakly now. "Are you stupid? This was nothing." Then he walked out, taking his hazy moral code, closing the door firmly behind him. Magnus recognised distantly someone doing the lock, and the sound of something being pushed through his letterbox. He didn't know why he had a letterbox really, aside from the fact it had come with the door, which had come with the apartment. It wasn't like he got much mail, apart from bills and such – and who wanted them? His disgruntled rant to himself was his last coherent thought before he closed his eyes and turned more comfortably onto his side.

* * *

Magnus shifted slightly as the slow waves of sleep began to recede. Blinking as the living room came back into focus, he blearily pressed his hands to his eyes and rubbed them tiredly. The living room? He frowned, attempting to recall the prior night, and winced as images of Raphael Santiago's delightful, smiling, happy face came back to him.

"_Who do you think has been making sure you get home without knocking yourself out on the pavement, Bane?" _

Had Raphael really been doing that? Now, _that_ was humiliating. Raphael was still an infant compared to Magnus. Catarina and Ragnor being concerned and getting Magnus home in one piece was normal for Magnus, expected almost, even if Ragnor would somehow manage do it with a hundred percent more sarcasm. Raphael? Not so much.

It was a few more moments before it occurred to Magnus that he had not woken up purely off his own back: the sound of someone buzzing to get up to his flat was resounding around the apartment. Throwing a hand over his eyes, he mentally groaned and considered ignoring it. After another minute of more or less consistent buzzing, Magnus figured it was urgent and awkwardly tried to rise from the sofa. He ended up rolling off the edge of the sofa and lying on the floor for a moment, sprawled on the furry purple rug. Heaving himself up, he made his way to the door.

"Hello?" Magnus wheezed into the intercom, putting his High Warlock of Brooklyn voice off for the moment. He wasn't sure his head could take that.

"Err… Hello? Magnus Bane?" A nervous, female voice sounded out.

"Yes?" It took several attempts for Magnus to get the word out: his throat was stiff.

"I, err, heard you were taking clients again?" The woman asked, sounding more worried by the minute.

Magnus stared at the intercom, a little blankly.

Was he? He tried to recall if he had ever put the sign up in the café window that he'd intended too, as he'd been derailed on his way by Etta's little unpleasant drop in, but, whilst rifling through his head, could not recall that happening. That, unluckily, did not mean that he had not. His brain post spirits was not quite the same at recalling memories. If he sent her away now it was possible people would give up asking him for help, which would mean no more income. Despite the fact that he had no immediate need for money, he knew he would eventually. He may also get bored at some point of drinking and sleeping around. Not anytime soon - but it could happen. Also, he liked Brooklyn, would not wish to have to move for work. Damn it.

"Hello?"

Might as well bite the bullet anyway, he couldn't slack off indefinitely.

"Erm, yes, yes, come up," Magnus muttered impatiently. He buzzed her in, albeit with more reluctance than usually reserved for clients who generally carried lots of cash.

Whilst retrieving his key off the floor with no small amount of difficulty, he contemplated he really wasn't in the best position to be taking customers - not with yesterday's clothes on, his hair flattened half way onto his head, and a hangover. He ignored this adversity and let her in with a sweep of his hands.

She had short dirty blonde hair in a bob and curved eyes that were completely blue, no whites. She turned to him after she stepped in, biting her lip. "Good morning," She said, holding out her hand for Magnus to shake, which he did swiftly. "I'm Kat Heath," she introduced, holding his hand a little too tightly, which allowed him to feel all the sweat on her palm.

"Well, Kat Heath, how may I be of service?" He asked, leading her to his sofa, and sitting down as formally and professionally as he could. Considering that he looked like a tramp who had fallen in glitter and yesterday had had fabulous make up, Magnus highly doubted he was pulling it off.

To her credit, she didn't comment on Magnus' not so elegant state - though Magnus supposed this may have had more too do with the fact she seemingly barely registered this over any sort of commendable blasé attitude. As it happened, she looked so flustered Magnus held he could've been bright orange and she wouldn't have particularly noticed.

"It's just…" She started, then hesitated. "The thing is, I'm in a real predicament. I really need your assistance. I have a real problem-" That sounded ominous. He'd been hoping for something along the line of a missing cat (which he was called to deal with insultingly too often, though right now he wouldn't do much complaining) or an ingrown toenail. This sounded like a lot of work on a hangover, an empty stomach and caffeine free.

Magnus held up a hand, halting any further explanation. "We'll get to that," Magnus said seriously, "but first, how about a nice hot beverage? I have a terrible hangover."

She did not look particularly reassured.

Despite this, when Magnus grandly swept her out the door a couple hours; she looked much more contented than when she had arrived. Relief was evident by the set of her face, and Magnus felt that familiar pang that used to come when he did work he was particularly proud of.

"Hey, how did you know I was taking clients again?" Magnus asked, stopping her before she disappeared down the stairs. He had come to some slight suspicions in the back of his head around halfway through the meeting - but he wanted to know for sure. Being insanely curious throughout the whole session, he'd resisted until now to ask. This was because, despite what Fell said (who Magnus privately termed 'the ever criticising green one'), Magnus was a _professional_.

"Oh," She said, pausing, a look of surprise gracing her features. "Some vampires were saying how you were taking clients again-" She stopped suddenly, uncertain, beginning to bite her lip. "Is that right? I'm really sorry if-"

"No, no, no," Magnus interrupted, shaking his head and smiling over radiantly. To say that was the cheeriest Magnus had been in the past few hours, she seemed suitably startled at Magnus' show of white teeth. "I thought so; I was just checking the message had got out." He shut the door quickly then, and turned towards his living room, frowning.

He knew who would be responsible for the sharing of that little tit bit of false information -conveniently less than 12 hours after their… 'meeting': Raphael. The vampire appeared to have numerous connections and ways of making things happen. He'd gathered a strong hold in less than a year. Considering that a year to a vampire was inconsequential, he had done remarkably well.

The wily bastard.

There was the distinct and very real possibility that Raphael had done it just to make sure Magnus was flooded with people ringing his buzzer and badgering him whilst he nursed a hangover. That would be in retribution for inconveniencing him, Magnus supposed. Magnus, however, thought that maybe that had not been Raphael's motivation, or, as was more likely, his _sole_ motivation. It could well have been an added bonus. In fact, Magnus didn't doubt that it was.

The little cretin.

This line of contemplation had led to him staring off into his living room. Moving out of his reverie, he refocused his eyes.

And winced.

Now he was actually noticing it, it was quite clear the living room had seen better days. Usually Magnus' house was full of disorganised clutter - but it had now crossed the line of 'cluttered' into what could only be aptly termed 'a bombsite'. Numerous items of worn clothing were sprawled on the floor, increasing in concentration the closer to Magnus' room they got. This was a pattern, he discovered, that his clothes mimicked all around the flat. It was easily sorted with a few clicks of his fingers (he did enjoy the clicking), it was not the point, however. The point was he'd only just noticed.

That was not the only thing he'd only just noticed. With a most definitely overdramatic double take, he saw his face in the bathroom mirror as he tidied up (i.e. snapped his fingers). He had dark shadows under his eyes, his actual eyes were the bloodshot ones of an alcoholic, his cheeks were gaunt and smeared with make up, his hair - horror of horrors - looked distinctly greasy and glitter speckled.

Bloody hell, he really was a mess.

What was next? Bald patches? Grey hair? Wrinkles? Not even realising it was _slightly_ irrational to be worrying about the signs of aging, he moved from his ensuite to sit down at the edge of his bed (which he noticed had sheets that desperately needed changing). All the things that should've pointed to his meltdown had failed and it took Raphael Santiago and his usual narcissism to realise.

He groaned aloud, putting his head in his hands. It was true and not true what Raphael had said to Magnus the night before.

"_It is not about this woman."_

It was about Etta - but it also wasn't.

It was about how he had danced with her in the kitchen and how he had spun her round and round and round and how he had felt in those moments. It was about how he felt they both had forever together. Unfortunately, the truth about forever was quite simple: it went on. And not everyone else did.

It was about the laughter lines on her face and the way her eyes were so warm and the kindness in her voice. It was the way Magnus Bane, feared and envied by many, had been completely devoted to a mundane woman who had no powers to speak of. It was the way how, even when she left, he couldn't be angry with her because he loved her so much and understood her. It was about how he understood she wasn't freaked out that he was a warlock, or that he had cat's eyes, or that he was eccentric, or that he liked crazy clothes and too many wild parties. It was about how he understood she didn't just accept those things but that she loved those things about him. It was about how he understood she left because she felt she had to - not because she wanted to.

However, it also wasn't about that.

He had had heartbreak. He had been left. He had longed. What was different was the sudden fear that had come after three centuries of being alive.

It was about being by yourself. It was about living for the next few hundred years with no one holding your hand, or not having the warmth of someone near you at night, or no one just to spend the sunny days with outside in the heat, or no one to sit inside with when it was raining and you wanted to play crappy board games. It was about the feeling that even if you did have all that, the companions would just be random faces and relationships would become hollow.

It was about love and loss and companionship. It was about still feeling _human_, despite his demon heritage and the too many centuries of having his heart beat and not turning into one of those immortals immune to life. The immortals who had seen so much and had so much and lost so much. The immortals who were alone.

It seemed, however, that you never truly were. No matter what you believed.

Catarina Loss, with all her years, bless her, had not been the one to remind him of that, nor Ragnor Fell, with all his years and stoic attitude. No, it had been a harsh young boy, who less than a year ago had tried to take his own life.

Again, the irony was not lost on Magnus.

Magnus groaned again then and rubbed his face. He really needed to get his shit together.

Starting today.

Coffee came first, however. He had just sat down, a half-full cup of coffee in one hand, when the buzzer rang.

He groaned.

Stalking over, he nearly bellowed into the microphone, "HIGH WARLOCK OF BROOKLYN!" before deciding that "Yes?" would be sufficient.

"Err… Magnus, is it? Can you buzz me up?" Some female voice came through the intercom - Magnus frowned, not recognising the voice. Who was he on a first name basis with whose voice he couldn't recall? To be fair, there were a few immortals which that may've applied to, but none particularly sprang out at him. Hoping that if the person was someone important they would not be too offended, he enquired, "Who is it?"

"It's Alice." Alice? Magnus wracked his brain. No last name… just Alice?

Ahhh, the hooker Alice. Come to wait for the Mr Stevens, he guessed. Good thing he hadn't bellowed about warlocks and all that.

"Come on up then," Magnus said, draining the last few dregs of his coffee. A few minutes later and Alice strode into the room, brushing past Magnus, her long coat (bright yellow this time) billowing out behind her. She was already smoking by the time Magnus had turned round and he accepted the offered cigarette, already lit, with a sweep of his hand.

She looked him up and down, taking in a long drag, before asking with a drawl to her voice, "Rough night?" Magnus blinked. He looked that bad? Yes, he had previously established that. Most people were not so blunt, however.

"Something like that," he responded, grinning. "Do you want a coffee?" He offered.

She nodded, not even looking at him now, but looking all around the room. "Milk and sugar," she requested as he moved out the room.

Magnus pretended to dither around in the kitchen, whilst really savouring his cigarette, before summoning some coffee and strolling back with the cups clutched in his hands. He spotted Alice standing in near the same position in the living room but closer to his phone. She was staring at something intently in her hand, which he saw, as he neared her, was a photo frame. Tapping her slightly with the coffee cup on the shoulder, she looked up.

"That your mother?" she asked, her eyes staring at the face. "She's pretty." Magnus looked at the photo, she _was_ pretty. She was also not his mother.

"My… ex," Magnus said hesitantly. She looked up then, raising her eyebrows.

"Ahh," she said.

"Ahh?" Magnus asked, leaning back and looking at her, contemplating kicking her out if she said anything about age gaps or toy boys and such. As it was, she smiled faintly, before replacing the picture on top of the cupboard, refocusing her attention on her cigarette, the smoke curling upwards towards the ceiling.

"Recent painful break up – you can kind of tell," she said, nodding as if she held some top-secret information.

"You can?"

"Well, yeah. No one keeps pictures of their forgotten exes. Hell, I burnt all the ones I had of mine. Anyway, you're a bit mopey."

"Mopey?" Magnus reiterated, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. He'd often been complained at for being too happy, joyous, light hearted et cetera et cetera, but mopey? Never. Except that time when… well, it was best not to get down that route, he thought hastily.

"Uh huh," she nodded, blowing out smoke from her nose like a make up clad, yellow dragon.

"How do you know I'm not mopey all the time?"

"Your clothes are too nice," she says waving her hand flippantly, as if it was an unreasonable question to ask and was fully explained by that statement. She finally seemed to notice the coffee Magnus was holding out to her and took it swiftly, moving to sit on his sofa. He looked at her bemused as she made herself comfortable, checking her clearly very expensive watch. Apparently deciding she had sufficient time for small talk, she turned to look at him again. "So, you decided yet?"

Magnus was a bit thrown. "Decided what?" He asked, completely baffled.

"The colours you were going to paint your walls?" She's looking at him expectantly and he releases he still hasn't got round to redecorating, in spite of the fact it'd take him less than a minute.

"The inspiration hasn't stuck me yet," he responded, moving to sit on the other end of the sofa. "The blue is nice," he muttered, staring at the walls.

"It is," Alice agreed, "I love blue, especially for eyes."

"Yes, that's always been a preference of mine."

Alice turns to look at him amused, replying with laughter in her voice. "Always? You're – what? No older than twenty, twenty-one at most? Wait until you get to my age to start saying 'always', dear."

"Point taken," Magnus responded, humour dancing in his eyes, though glamoured as they were to her, he was not sure she'd see it.

"Anyway," she started, finishing her cigarette and moving from the nicotine to the caffeine. "The blue's nice, but you should make a change. Some positive colour, maybe."

"Why should I make a change?" Magnus asked, quizzical.

"Because," she said slowly, "You're clearly bored with the blue, so change it. Then, when the blue's not boring anymore, you can change it back to blue." She said all her words very slowly. "Or not," she added, after a beat.

"That sounds… logical," Magnus replied with.

"Colour's not about logic," Alice said, shaking her head. Then, after rechecking her watch, hopped to her feet and leaned down to kiss Magnus on the cheek. "Thanks for the coffee!" She called as she swept out the living room. Just as her hand was on the doorknob to leave, she turned back around hesitantly. "It may not be anything to do with me, Magnus, but you're a nice kid. Take my advice, stop pining on some old cougar, you have your whole life ahead of you."

Magnus decided to ignore the cougar remark, as it seemed to come from a good place, and responded to that with the first thing that entered his head, "How do you know I'm nice?"

Alice looked at Magnus then, like he was particularly idiotic – he'd had a lot of that in the last twenty four hours. "I'm a hooker who has been into the flat of a teenage boy to wait for her client, where he offered me coffee and let me wait on his sofa in my underwear and coat. Trust me - you're a good kid. Anyway, same time next week?" Then, without waiting for a response or any kind of acknowledgement, Alice slipped out the door and was gone in seconds. This left Magnus to contemplate what the walls would look like in yellow.

* * *

Catarina Loss blinked at Magnus. Then blinked again.

"You look…" She paused, hesitating. "Bright," she completed. Seeing his look, she added hastily, "You're colourful, I like it."

"Of course I'm colourful. I am always a shining beacon of colour," Magnus said solemnly, before opening the door wider to let her in. She peered around as she inched her way further into Magnus' apartment as if suspecting Magnus was hiding a monster underneath the particularly gorgeous violet shirt draped less than artfully on his floor.

"This is… tidy," she observed slowly. "Ish," she added, as if realising she had mistakenly given Magnus the idea that she didn't believe he should sort his _stuff_ out. She made no secret for the disdain she had for Magnus' disorganisation.

"I'm guessing you didn't come around at this late hour just to compliment my outfit, though if you did. I wouldn't object." He might actually, just because the last few days of abruptly throwing himself back into work, after a period of doing sweet F.A., had been exhausting. An exhausting that he felt in the majority of his body. However, he told himself to stop whining mentally about being tired because he could see by Catarina's uniform that she had come straight from her damn hard job, which she worked non stop, without complaint.

"Sorry, I just finished work and I wanted to check on you," Catarina said, finally finishing looking around at the room and refocusing on Magnus. Well, at least she was honest about her reasons for visiting.

"Does no one visit me just as a social call anymore?" Magnus complained.

"This is a social call, just with underlying motives," Catarina replied. "You look well," she added, eyebrows raised as if surprised he didn't look like a seventy year old hobo or something.

"As if I ever don't look fabulous, darling," he argued, creasing his features with exasperation and sweeping his hands up and down his slim figure. He'd have said something about Catarina's working hours, but she was always very swift to remind Magnus that _saving lives_ had no time restraints. "Are you hungry? I would offer you something to eat, but I have nothing in." That wasn't actually because of his recent neglect of life, that was more to do with his suddenly insane workload the past three days from the backlog he had created during said recent neglect of life. Well, it may be connected, he grudgingly admitted to himself.

Catarina scrutinised him with the eyes of a nurse. "Not really, but you still need to put on some weight," she declared. "Let's go to that café two blocks away?" I'll pay."

"No need, though I appreciate the charity, all the same." Magnus replied, summoning his wallet. "It'll be busy though, always is." Catarina just shrugged – she worked in a hospital where things were rarely calm.

As Magnus had thought, the clean but plain café was fit to bursting. It wasn't particularly fabulous, but it was cheap, clean and had alright food. This made it the hotspot of any social occasion for Downworlders.

A young female server (part faerie, Magnus guessed from the bright yellow hair and matching eyebrows) helped them find some seats cramped in at the back. The café was full of conversation and laughter, with the occasional brawl thrown in. The perfect atmosphere. Magnus often tried to achieve this at one of his famous parties (and succeeded), but admittedly with more alcohol to, ahh, get the party going the right way.

"But Magnus," she said seriously as they sat down around a metal table, menus stacked in the middle. Magnus grabbed one immediately, perusing for food. "How are you?"

"Hungry," Magnus murmured distractedly. "You know how much work I had to catch up on? Apparently, despite the numerous warlocks in the area none of them actually do anything of use," Magnus looked faintly displeased by this, until he noticed what he had just said. "Not you, Catarina," Magnus fixed hastily.

"No offence taken," Catarina reassured. She had always been a nurse before a witch, and would have it no other way.

"You know, I had to rid a man of a seven foot tree growing out of a _nasty_ place - and that was just the start. Then I had to convince a woman that her sister was not, in fact, under a love spell but in some genuine, old fashioned, homosexual love." Magnus rolled his eyes at the world's still persistent homophobia in the 20th century. "That was unpleasant, I was lucky to escape a beating when she accused me of being in 'on it'. As it was, I had to knock the woman out – nothing that would leave a mark but..."

Catarina was staring at him with amusement. "Not what I was referring to, Magnus."

"Oh," Magnus said, finally tearing his eyes from the list of puddings.

Catarina leaned back on her chair, studying him, before saying critically, "You do look a lot better. No offence, but you looked rather washed out before."

"I did not!" Magnus protested, insulted. It was bad enough to admit to himself, let alone other people. He was set to enter a tirade in how people couldn't expect him to look _this good_ all the time and he knew he set a ridiculously high standard, but was distracted by ordering and then food, at which point he had moved onto chattering about the lack of red in his wardrobe. "Anyway, enough about me, I've been rather self absorbed lately, tell me about you… Wait, shall we have a coffee before we go? We can get decaf…" At which point, Catarina broke into a rather gut wrenching tale of an AIDS patient she was treating. As that was Catarina – always lightening the mood.

Despite the rather depressing topic of conversation, Magnus had an enjoyable time. It might've been because it was the closest thing to a social life he had right now aside from conversations with a prostitute that he wasn't paying (it was time for another party - he could sense it), or the cake, but Magnus was feeling pretty chilled out as he paid (despite Catarina's protest. "Hush, hush," he'd said in response. "You get paid no way near enough for your hard work, whereas I get paid far too much for very little."). Nevertheless, as Magnus had pointed out before, the universe disliked immortals. It probably resented their ongoing existence, that was the only explanation Magnus could account for as to why the anti Christ himself would turn up after Magnus had had rather a lot of chocolate cake and a pleasant evening.

"Glad to see you back in business, Bane." The glacial words snapped Magnus' attention as he was striding out the café with Catarina. He turned to see Raphael with Milly/ Tilly and Elliott as well as a few extra hangers on. Raphael was sat around the table, nothing in front of him, whereas there were cups, full of what Magnus liked to think was red juice, in front of the others.

Magnus turned slowly, meeting Raphael's blank eyes. "Thanks to you," Magnus said.

Raphael tipped his head in acknowledgment, an almost imperceptible smug look blooming across his face. "We know how to spread a message quickly."

"That you do," Magnus admitted with raised eyebrows, amused despite himself. "Thanks for the help," Magnus said, knowing Raphael would know he was not just referring to the Downworld's population being updated as to his working hours.

Raphael looked uninterested and waved his hand dismissively, saying sternly, "It's my business to make sure the High Warlock of Brooklyn was back to doing his job."

"No, need to worry your little head anymore, Raphael," Magnus almost sang, smiling with mock sweetness. Raphael glowered.

"I hope you are helping some of ours who have been seeking your help," Raphael said formally, as if they were almost strangers.

Magnus felt the sudden strong urge to examine his nails, which he did, whilst contemplating the likeness between Ragnor and Raphael and how the same things annoyed them. Those two were soul mates. If Raphael looked a little older, if Ragnor looked a little younger and if they were both a little gayer, well, Magnus wouldn't want to live on a planet that had those two plotting together inhabiting. As it was, Raphael was like Ragnor, not with him, and Magnus' examining his nails was a tactical move to aggravate Raphael because… because he could. Like one might annoy a younger sibling, just because they could.

"Oh, I don't know," Magnus said airily. "I'm very busy, you know, with the redecorating and all that jazz." Magnus was sure Raphael knew nothing about jazz. Raphael did dislike fun. Music was most likely classified as an unnecessary and useless part of life.

"Redecorating?" Raphael questioned flatly, his face going between blank and exasperated.

"Redecorating," Magnus confirmed with a bright smile. "Lots of colour, you'd love it. Feel free to drop by and consult."

"I'll leave you to the frivolities," Raphael said easily, and later Magnus would doubt it happened and would only be about 10% sure it actually did, but Magnus could've sworn Raphael's mouth twitched up into some ghost of a genuine smile by a good two or three millimetres.

Magnus felt a stab of affection.

He stared blankly for a moment, before catching himself, and with the ease of three hundred years of life (more or less), he said with a nonchalant air, "Yeah, it's probably best to leave it to those who know what they're doing." Then he turned on his heel, linked arms with Catarina and slipped out, giving them all a glimpse of what his skin-tight trousers did for him from the back.

"So, redecorating, huh?" Catarina asked after they cleared the café.

"Yeah," Magnus said lightly, "Think it's time for a change."

"Yes, a change might do you good," Catarina agreed as they strolled through the dark streets. Magnus acknowledged silently she may not have been talking about the paint. He understood what she was implying, however, and considered the black and white photo of Etta that had sent him into a spiral just weeks ago - it was still standing in his flat proudly. It was like a constant neon glowing sign to remind him of his heartbreak and just how much he loved her.

He had a few photo albums in some hidden boxes to finish anyway.

"I thought so," Magnus said breezily. "What do you think about yellow for the walls?" Magnus asked. "I've always thought it was a positive colour."

Catarina rolled her eyes at this for some reason Magnus couldn't fathom, before stopping abruptly where she was. The street lights shined down on her and the sudden frown on her face. "You never answered my question earlier," Catarina stated, grabbing his arm and looking at him intensely. "Are you okay?"

He stared back at her, startled. However, his surprise meant he didn't just answer reflexively and he made himself think for a moment: was he okay?

Magnus thought about how he still woke up sometimes and expected someone to be next to him on the bed, searching for a hand that wasn't there. He thought about how he would wait for someone to get in who never did. He thought about how sometimes he would summon two coffees in a morning when he wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. He felt these thoughts rattling in his skull as she looked at him expectantly. He considered Catarina then.

Catarina was annoyingly persistent when it came to her friends - maybe it was because immortals hoarded relationships, especially to other immortals, as they were the only friends they wouldn't definitely lose. He respected her friendship, especially as she didn't stop caring despite the decades that would go by, and so he tried to give her an honest answer.

"No," he said slowly.

Which was true.

But then he thought about three hundred years of life which had been full of numerous heart breaks. He thought about the first mortal he had stayed with until her death and the sharp grief that he had felt. He thought about the fact that he still kept getting up and baring his heart just the same, despite the same end result. "But I will be," he added. That seemed to be enough for Catarina, because she smiled then and linked her arm with his, leaning her head on his shoulder, allowing Magnus to lead her back to his apartment as they discussed redecoration plans.

But Magnus did like the blue.

**End**

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Any reviews or comments would be appreciated.**


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